Mistakes
by T. Mad Hatter
Summary: Suicide fic, Trowa POV. "God...I never meant for all of this to happen...it was a mistake." Read and review, please.


Disclaimer: I don't own Trowa or any of the other Gundam Pilots for that matter. If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here, writing about them. 

I never meant for it to end this way. Mistakes were made, yes, but I'm the only one who should mourn them. Lies creep into my head at night, whispering things that break my sanity each time I hear them. I can't ignore my ghosts--they are forever haunting me because I want them to. Pain is adrenaline, and I'm an adrenaline-junkie. Drugs aren't enough anymore. I can't let them eat away at me like acid because the high I once received is gone. Everything is so pointless now.

They walk together everyday, smiling and laughing with their petty jokes and faces glowing. I can barely even watch as I feel my stomach sway with nausea and my head spin once more. I feel like just picking up that fucking gun in my drawer and blowing my own head off. But I don't. I resist every time, thinking of how they'd react if I left. It's funny, really. My attempts at suicide are always cut short by pure guilt; guilt brought on by promises made when I was young and foolish, when I was young and didn't know what emotions were.

We made it out of the war, so I figured that everything would fall into place. We'd learn how to feel again and express our emotions, just like normal human beings. I went to school for a while with the other four, soaking up useless knowledge from old men that were still probably virgins and didn't know what a woman's uterus was. Wufei sat beside me in almost every class, laughing and making jokes about the teachers when they weren't looking. Heero concentrated on plans and writing, while Duo slept all through class. Quatre took notes attentively, thoroughly absorbed in the lecture. As I said before, everything was falling to place…or so I thought.

When you're on the outside of the circle, it's hard to cope. You long every single day to confide in them; to spill your heart out just so the memories would be gone and the weight lifted. It hurts so much to think that you can never do that—they could never handle the truth. You protect them from it, hoping that mere blindness will keep them from noticing. And you're right--they never do.

I lay awake every night, perfectly still except for the gentle rising and falling of my chest. When I'm perfectly still, I'm completely aware of my entire being. Every single part of my body is acknowledged; every thought in my head analyzed. I'm almost at peace, but I then realize that at one point, I must move again so my tranquility is broken by reality yet another time. No one knows me better than myself, and that is only by fatal chance. I know my weaknesses, my few skills, and even my darkest needs. Suicide is an intoxicating drug to fall into, you know.

Sometimes, I think that being completely apathetic hurts much more than any emotion ever could possibly. We all have a place in this group of five friends, and I find that I'm beginning to grow out of my position. Everyone saw me as the quiet asshole, the perceptive one who noticed things others didn't and did things no one understood until they witnessed the end result. I was the right-hand man to the "Perfect Soldier," always there to survey his moves and tactics, but never to actually be of any service to him. I'm expendable and useless, so why bother while I'm here? 

Things slowly began to change, though. Wufei and Duo found common ground and Quatre matured mentally. Heero discovered a gentler side beneath the mask and it surprised him. I was the only one that remained the same, though no one else noticed. It was probably because they wanted me to stay the same—I was the one thing they could count on always being there. Duo's jokes and Quatre's understanding was like that as well: always there, even with the ever-changing seasons of war. The same questions kept being asked over and over with the same answers responded. And so my haunting discomfort grew with the stone-cold cruelty.

I…I thought I was hallucinating in the beginning. They did need me. They had to need me, or else why would I still be in their good graces? Why would I still be one of them? It's because they wanted to let me down easy. They wanted me to feel okay and safe; that it wasn't me, it was them.

Bastards.

I would never betray my friends, but I can't say the same for them.  They left me on the side of the road, having not been able to see through my facade. Half of that was my fault, but the other half was theirs. They never even _tried_. I tried with them. I cared with them. Sometimes even, when they left me, I solved their problems for them when they were too weak to accept the truth. They'll never know the truth. They can't accept reality.

The seducing fact is this: Trowa isn't what he seems now, is he? I'm not kind or nice or caring. I'm a cruel son of a bitch and I'd be the first to admit that. I don't care about them—not anymore. How could I? That'd make my final end too painful, and it's already filled to the top with misery. Then again, they don't care about me either. Did they ever?

I'm sitting in my room and everything is dark and still. The dusty scent of dry blood lingers in the air, even though it's been days since I've last walked in with a dripping cruor shirt from another fight. I wince at the very memory, recalling that it was Wufei that had hit me in a blunt attempt to silence my alcoholism. 

The desk to my right is beckoning to me an innocent bottle of sleeping pills sit upon it. Shall I risk it? Sure, I'm not afraid of death. If I'm going to die, they can just assume that it was an accident. That'll make the pain go away.

I grab the cool, plastic container and head back to my soft bed, contenting myself by sitting on the edge. I'm doing this for their own good. I'm a burden; a useless, apathetic burden that doesn't even need to exist.

I almost feel sorry as I open the gleaming phial up, pouring a few taunting white pills onto my shaking hand. Will they miss me? Do I even know why I'm doing this? Is there any point in suicide? I no longer care, grabbing a glass of water and almost shoving the drugs of sweet death down my throat, pausing only to let out a short, hoarse cough. 

I'll miss them. They were my friends, even though I could never be a part of their group. I could never be understood by my comrades. They were my only family. My life is a tragedy, I suppose. I don't mind that, however. I'm not hurting anyone this time. Everything will turn out right in the end.

My head spins and I crash to the floor. It hurts…why does it hurt? They're sleeping pills…they shouldn't hurt…they should make me sleepy. Damn, I drank whiskey before this…God, make this stop. And then, suddenly, everything stops. I realize this was all a mistake.

I never meant for it to end this way.


End file.
